Did you know that I’m a joyful music-maker?


My form danced, and there I was with a glorious instrument! Immediately I forgave the gods for the loss of Love, and I took my body of grief out into the sun.

I felt lucky to be beamed upon with such Heat. I knew I could be equal to it, the way I practice burning out the illness in my thoughts.


I truly am ill, Beatrice—I have been since the Beginning.

I don’t know what is real, and the confusion has wreaked a havoc I have yet to patch. I wield a sword, but sometimes my arms are too weak to pierce the fog, my legs too weak to dance, my throat too raw to shout and stun the racket into silence.


Then where is mirth, curiosity, mischief? I am blind and crying for these my companions, here in my most delicious perfumes and most opulent drag. I still have humility and compassion, and my everlasting freakishness.


But do I have Love?

Without it I am unequal to Life—I can’t survive the suspense. Without it I exhaust my wings by flapping wildly and am unequipped to fly when the breeze at last pulls through.

But how much longer is it wise to hope? Please Beatrice.

My sickly little thoughts need a pill.